Don't Blink
by 221c
Summary: A fill for a request over on Tumblr. Sherlock finds the Doctor's messages on the seventeen DVDs. He takes it upon himself to fill in the other side of the conversation.
1. Chapter 1

_**Don't Blink [1/3?]**_

**A/N:** This is written to fill an anonymous request I got over on my tumblr. There are three accompanying gif-sets for the request, which are basically brief summaries of each part of this story. I'll provide a link for each over on my profile. Also, I'm sure it goes without saying, but I don't own any of these characters. Obviously. That unique privilege belongs to Steven Moffat, and I am not him. So! With all that said, Anon, I hope this satisfies the request.

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><p>"<em>Don<em>_'__t __blink. __Blink __and __you__'__re __dead. __Don__'__t __turn __your __back. __Don__'__t __look __away. __And __don__'__t __blink. __Good __luck_."

Footsteps on the stairs – John then, returning with the shopping. You entertain the idea of shutting the laptop and feigning innocence, but it wouldn't do any good. He would know. You rewind the clip.

"_-you__'__re __dead. __Don__'__t __turn __your __back. __Don__'__t __look __away. __And __don__'__t __blink. __Good __luck._"

He's in the doorway now, hands full with heavy bags. You can see him out of the corner of your eye as you rewind yet again. He's watching you with that small frown of his – the one that makes you want to cringe, like you've been caught doing something you know you're not supposed to. You don't let it show. And you don't look up.

"Sherlock?"

You hum a vague response, pretending to be completely engrossed in the dark-haired man on the laptop screen, even when all your attention has been diverted to the jumper-wearing, milk-toting man who's huffing a long-suffering sigh and dumping the shopping on the kitchen table.

"Is that my computer?"

He's by your side before you can respond, slamming the laptop shut with stiff limbs, cutting off the last bit of "_-good __luck_" and carrying it away from you, out of your reach. Only then do you look up, feigning wide-eyed surprise when you're really anything but.

"Right, okay," he's saying, running a hand through his cropped hair. He's stressed – you could easily deduce why (traffic on the way home, got a call from his sister, a million other possibilities) but right now you're too busy waiting for him to continue.

He meets your eyes, and for a moment he looks faintly regretful before he plows on. "I've had about enough of your ridiculous obsession with this," he says, gesturing to where he dumped the laptop on _his_ chair. "If you want to watch those DVD extras over and over again, do so on your own computer."

A frightful silence stretches between the two of you. He looks down and away, letting out a long breath of air. You remain sitting, staring up at him with what you hope is coming off as cool indifference.

"You have a problem with it," you eventually say – not a question, but you're curious. John's reaction to the video is overblown and you both know it – he's never really bothered paying too much attention to what you do, so long as you're not hurting yourself or anyone around you. Most of the time he likely wouldn't understand it anyway. He simply assumes it's part of your work. He's never reacted negatively to something without just cause, and right now you can't quite figure out what pushed him over the edge.

He continues avoiding eye contact, and it takes him a minute to respond. "Because, Sherlock," he says your name with exasperation, like it should be _obvious_ to you why he's so upset. "You've been sitting in front of that same video clip for nearly a week and it's not for a case or you would have mentioned something by now. Besides, you never asked to use my computer."

His argument weakens at the end, and he ducks his head and presses his lips together. You very nearly huff a laugh, but you don't for fear of adding more fuel to the fire. Instead, you clasp your hands under your chin and adopt the emotionless mask you'd managed to perfect well before adolescence.

"John," you reason. "You're right."

That throws him off. He looks up again, opens his mouth like he has more to say. His brow furrows in confusion.

"I should have asked," you finish lightly and rise to your feet. You're about to start for the stairs – perhaps Lestrade has a new case for you down at the Yard, otherwise you'll find something else to do for a few hours – but he moves in your way, arms crossed over his chest.

You're glad he stops you.

"No, Sherlock, wait. Why are you so…_obsessed_ with this? What's it got to do with anything? From what I've seen of it, it's just some man holding one side of a conversation."

"Precisely, John."

A flicker of understanding begins to brighten his eyes. "So it's a puzzle to you, then? Figure out the other half?"

You give an elegant shrug. "That, or figure out who it's meant for. Those extras were never supposed to be included on those discs. There are seventeen in total, all completely unrelated. Those clips were put there for someone."

"And you've decided to take it upon yourself to figure it all out. Of course" he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He turns, heads towards the kitchen. "Do you want tea, or are you still leaving?"

You could leave. Catch a cab to the Yard. The DVD will still be there when you get back, along with the dark-haired, unnamed man.

"I'll have a cup."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Don't Blink [2/3]**_

**A/N:** Written to fill an anonymous request I got over at my tumblr. I'm actually fairly happy with this part. Hopefully I'll have the final part up within two or three days. The gif-set that accompanies this part is linked over on my profile page. And once again, I don't own these characters.

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><p>Cases come and go. They do enough to distract you from the mysterious man on the DVDs, and eventually it all but fades from your mind. After all, there's only so much you can do with one side of a bizarre conversation. Never make assumptions without all facts present.<p>

That's probably why you don't notice them at first.

The first one appears two months after you discover the hidden messages. You probably don't notice because it's nowhere suspicious – just standing at the gates to a cemetery you drive past on the way to a crime scene. The only reason it _would_ stand out is because you've never seen it before, and perhaps because it isn't there when you return to 221b Baker Street an hour later, but in all fairness John is distracting you from watching the city streets.

There are more after that. One appears next to the church two roads away, only a week after you spot the first. This one you _do_ notice, but John is trotting along beside you, asking you to clarify bits from your latest case so he can put it on his blog. You quickly forget about it in favor of regaling your brilliance to your flatmate and thereby those in the Yard that follow his writings.

One afternoon John is working at his _other__job_ and you're left to your own devices, and you spy another one, in the window of the empty flat across the street. You're just putting on your scarf to go and investigate when the door downstairs opens and you hear Mrs. Hudson greeting your brother, offering him tea and biscuits.

"_You're getting far too slim, dear. Beginning to look more and more like that brother of yours."_

You wish she would offer him cake instead of biscuits. You discard your scarf in favor of locking your door and retreating to your bedroom with your violin. Perhaps if you make enough noise, Mycroft will leave you be.

He doesn't. John returns just as Mycroft is leaving (_finally, __finally, __finally_) and you don't get the chance to go across the street to the empty flat.

Two days later sees you and John together in an abandoned warehouse in the Docklands, investigating another case for (_without_) Lestrade. You can hear John moving about behind a row of dusty crates that separate you.

"Why are we looking for, again?" he calls through the stale air.

"Anything that may lead us to the reason behind the disappearances of Reese, Mauro, and Lindon. They're connected, somehow, and Lindon was last seen in this area."

The two of you proceed in silence for a few minutes. You break open one of the crates – dust and old rusted machine parts. You hear John stop suddenly. Something changes in the air.

"Sherlock?"

There's a hint of fear just barely noticeable beneath the confusion. You climb over the boxes, land nimbly by his side. His torch shines through the dust, straight at the statue half-hidden behind more crates.

You freeze.

"Sherlock, what is that?"

"Keep looking at it."

You turn, shine your own torch back the way John came.

"There's more. John, whatever you do, _do __not __blink_."

Something in your voice heads him off from anything he was about to say. You hear him swallow audibly. "Wasn't planning on it. What are these, exactly?"

"The Weeping Angels. I've been seeing them around the city recently. _Stupid!_ I should have been paying attention, _why_ did I not pay attention?"

"Nevermind that now," he says, backing up until you're pressed back-to-back. "I – wait, isn't that what the man on those DVD extras you were so obsessed with was talking about? Sherlock, if this is some sort of joke-"

The already-dim lights overhead flicker. Your torches shut off.

"What's wrong with the lights?"

"Just keep looking at it, John. Do not take your eyes off of it, don't blink. I'm going to try and get us out of here."

You're desperately thinking back, trying to remember anything you may have forgotten about the video clips, anything that the man said that will get you out. Something about a phonebox – sending it back? The man had said he was from the future, something about time travel, quantum locks, _but __I _can _hear __you._

Except that's not possible – he's a video clip hidden on a DVD disc. And you're stuck in a warehouse surrounded by Angels with the lights about to go-


	3. Chapter 3

**_Don't Blink [3/3]_**

**A/N:** Written for an anonymous request I got over on Tumblr. This is the last _official_ part, but I'm considering writing an epilogue. There are three accompanying gif-sets that are linked over on my profile page for each part of this fic. And once again, I don't own these characters.

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><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

You stir briefly. _John.__That__'__s__John__talking._ You struggle to open your eyes, the feeling of missing something important tugging at the back of your mind.

"Sherlock, wake up."

Your eyes flutter. You're lying on a couch, so far as you can tell. The room is warm, with a fire crackling somewhere nearby. There's a dull throbbing at the back of your skull, but the feeling of _not__right_ distracts you from any other observations you might've made.

"John?"

You hear the relief in his voice when he responds. "Oh, good. You're awake."

Your eyes open fully, blinking against the assault of light. It takes you a moment, but you finally adjust enough to look around and catch sight of your flatmate hovering anxiously next to you. He looks relieved, yes, but there's something else.

Some underlying note of…panic?

You glance around the room – it's not your flat, certainly. Nor is it anywhere you recognize. The floors are covered in a soft carpet, the walls a far cry from the familiar wallpaper of 221b. The fire is the only visible light in the room, but there's the faint telltale flickering of candlelight somewhere behind you.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you meet the uneasy gaze of your friend.

"Where are we?" he asks, voice hushed. "What happened?"

You think back – you remember investigating the abandoned warehouse. You broke open a crate – just dust and rusty metal. John called your name, you climbed over the crates between you, and-

Oh.

_Oh._

You sit bolt upright, eyes raking over the room once more. It seems mostly abandoned – the furniture is ratted and dusty, the carpet stained, the shelves bare. There are no light fixtures to speak of – no lamps, no overhead bulbs. There's a few newspaper clippings resting near the fireplace, probably intended as kindling.

"Sherlock?"

"What do you remember, John?" you ask quietly.

"I remember being in the warehouse with the Angels. And the lights went out and – well, I think one of them touched my arm. And suddenly I was here, in this flat, and you appeared and collapsed. That's it."

You purse your lips, eyes narrowing. The throbbing in your skull would explain why you woke up on the couch, but that's not exactly your main concern at the moment. John stops you from standing when you try, but you don't protest.

"Where are we, Sherlock?" he asks again, sounding far too uncertain than you're comfortable with. "What happened to the angels?"

The sounds you can hear drifting through the thin glass of the window across the room, however faintly, sound foreign to you. It's not the tread of rubber wheels on concrete or sirens in the distance, but what could almost be mistaken for horse hooves and cart wheels.

You try to stand again and scowl darkly when John tries to push you back.

"You have a concussion; you need to-"

Ignoring him, you climb unsteadily to your feet and stumble ungracefully across the room to the window. The sky is growing dark, but you can still see the small stream of people on the street below, all dressed in elaborate Victorian costumes.

You pull your mobile out of your pocket. No reception. A horse-drawn carriage clatters down the street. Turning, you move towards the fireplace, snatching the newspaper clippings up from the floor, eyes skimming through the articles, looking for any clues. At first: nothing. Except for-

Behind you, John waits near the couch. He's rubbing his hands together, casting his wary gaze around the flat, then back to you. He has no idea.

It _should_ be impossible.

You turn back to your flatmate. Blink once, twice. Surprise is an emotion foreign to you.

"John, how do you feel about the late 1800's?"

He tilts his head minutely to the side. "Why…?"

You gesture vaguely towards the window. "We may be here for a while."


End file.
